This is a work of fiction; all the resemblances are completely accidental. I am the one who owns all the ideas and characters in the story. Contains violence and descriptive sexual scenes between two males. If you are not supposed to read it, don't do so. Feel free to e-mail me with praises or insults (former preferred).
- X -
He never went back to the docks after that happened, and he would have the same occurring nightmare almost every night. The monocle, it would always be the monocle. He wouldn't see the man's face, just the monocle gleaming in the moonlight. And then everything would repeat itself with nauseating precision. And then Desmond would wake up, choking on his own scream. He would lie on his bench, shaking, with tears crawling down his face.
After a month or so, it started to get cold, and Desmond tried to figure out where to spend his nights until the weather warms up again. One of those nights, he was pleasantly surprised when an old lady he ran some errands for, tipped him very nicely. He didn't remember the last time he had that much money. Of course, it would seem like nothing to most people, but Desmond felt rich right then.
It started to rain a bit ago, so Desmond decided to treat himself to a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of warm food before he had to find a place to stay for the night. "At least, I'd be full," he reasoned. He went into a small tavern calledPig Under Umbrella. Desmond couldn't figure out why in the world someone would name their tavern like that, it was plain silly, if you'd ask him. The food there was good, however, and a lot cheaper than anywhere else in the city.
He walked in, shaking the rainwater out of his long by now hair and sat down at one of the tables. One of the waitresses walked up to him.
"Hey, Desmond," she smiled at him. "How are you, kiddo?"
He looked up. Her name was LeAnn, he remembered immediately. She looked like she was in her mid-forties, and she had that motherly aura about her. Not that Desmond would know much about motherly auras, but that's what it felt like to him anyway. Desmond helped her with the trays and cleaning up here at the *Pig *several times before, and she would always send him away with a bagful of food.
"Hey, LeAnn," he smiled back, brushing hair off his face. "I am okay," he nodded even though `okay' was as far as the moon from the way he really was. He didn't feel like sharing his problems with anyone; it was his business only.
"Glad to hear that," she nodded. "What would you like?"
"Umm..." he pulled his money out of his pocket. "What can I get with this?"
LeAnn looked thoughtfully at the bills in his hand.
"I'd say, a pot-roast and some hot chocolate," she said finally. "And you'll still have some left," she winked at him.
"Sounds great!" Desmond said enthusiastically. He really felt okay right now, he realized. He knew that tomorrow (or maybe even tonight) he'll feel as shitty as before, but right now was okay, and he was glad for that.
"Be back in a jiff!" LeAnn said and walked away.
She really did come back quite soon, Desmond was impressed. The pot-roast was delicious, and so was his hot chocolate. LeAnn came back to get the empty dishes and she smiled slyly and slipped a bar of chocolate into Desmond's hand.
"You look like you like those," she said quietly.
"Thanks, LeAnn!" he smiled back at her and put the chocolate into his pocket.
She tussled his hair lightly and went away, empty dishes piling up on her tray. Desmond was about to finish whatever was left of his chocolate when he heard someone say:
"Bring that cook out! I wanna see the man who made these! They are amazing!"
Desmond agreed with that silently; he had no idea what the person was complimenting, but the food was delicious, and he wouldn't mind seeing that great cook himself. So he turned his head towards the swinging doors of the kitchen, and when he saw the cook, he froze. The monocle gleaming in the moonlight. The smell of burnt oil and old fish. That impossible pain ripping him apart. Desmond threw some bills on the table (later, he was amazed that even then he remembered to tip LeAnn), jumped up, and ran outside as if someone was chasing him.
He didn't make it too far from the Pig when his stomach convulsed, and Desmond folded in half, vomiting so violently that for a second he thought his stomach was going to literally turn inside out. He fell on his knees, smashing his palms into dirty pavement, staring blindly at the pot-roast that he enjoyed less than half an hour ago, and the thought shot through his mind. "Oh God... *He *is the one who made it! *His *hands touched my food..." That made him throw up again, as violently as before. He was hacking and coughing until nothing but bile came out.
Finally, he was able to get up and walk away. The rain was coming down hard now, and Desmond threw his head back and opened his mouth, desperate for some water to wash the taste of bile off his tongue. It helped somewhat; the taste wasn't gone completely but at least now, it wasn't as strong. He just kept on walking blindly through the rain without any particular point of destination in his mind.
Finally, he realized that he'd better find some relatively dry place to spend the night. He glanced around and saw that one of the houses had a small front porch covered by the awning. There was also a bench there. Desmond made his way towards the bench, making sure that he didn't produce any noise. He'd hate to be kicked under the rain again by the house owners if they happened to notice him.
He sat down on that bench carefully and was somewhat relieved when he realized that the awning protected him from the rain pretty well. He pulled the bar of chocolate out of his pocket, thinking that those hands definitely didn't touch the candy, and the thought made him queasy again. He gritted his teeth and pushed those damn thoughts away. The wrapper came off with the soft creaking complaint, and Desmond sunk his teeth into the dark bittersweet goodness.
He was so cold that he kept shaking uncontrollably, but at least now, he was protected from the rain. He pulled his knees all the way up to his chest after he finished the chocolate (that candy was gone in less than two minutes) and hugged himself with both arms tightly. He tried to get some sleep, but he was shaking so bad that he knew almost immediately that sleep would not happen tonight.
"You'll catch pneumonia like this, kid," someone said suddenly, and Desmond jerked so hard that he almost fell off the bench. For one dreadful second, he could've sworn that he saw the monocle reflecting raindrops, but then he realized that it was just his imagination. The man who spoke to him didn't wear a monocle or even glasses.
"What the fuck do you care," Desmond muttered, his voice shaky from cold. The man hemmed in somewhat amused way.
"Well, considering that this is my house that you are sitting next to..." he said, and Desmond felt like screaming. Now he'll have to get out of here... Goddammit!
"Fine, whatever," he said tightly and got off the bench. "I am leaving."
"That's not what I meant, you dipshit," the man laughed softly. "What I meant was, you can wait for the rain to pass inside where it's warm."
Desmond's eyes immediately narrowed.
"Uh huh," he said darkly. "In your bed where you'd fuck me senseless, right?"
The man hemmed again.
"Don't flatter yourself, kid," he said. "You are too scrawny for my taste... And too young. How old are you? Thirteen?"
"Fourteen," Desmond muttered.
"Close enough," the man shrugged. "I like my fuck-buddies to at least have a driver's license."
"Then why would you invite me in?" Desmond was longing for some warmth; longing to get away from this blasted rain even if just for a few hours, but he didn't trust this guy. "What if I rob you and kill you in your sleep?"
The man laughed as if Desmond just told him the most hilarious joke in the world.
"You could try," he said finally. "I wouldn't recommend it though," he added. "As for why am I doing this..." he shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I am trying to repent," he said in a softer voice.
Desmond bit his lip. He felt like one of those dogs that's been abused and now snarls at everyone who is getting too close for comfort, expecting them to lash out for no reason. The man shrugged.
"I am getting cold," he said. "If you'd rather spend the night on the bench, be my guest."
He started to walk towards the front door when Desmond said tentatively:
"Wait..."
The man stopped and half-turned his head, one of his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
"I..." Desmond cleared his throat. "I would like that..." he finished quietly. "I mean... To come inside..."
"Okay then," the man nodded calmly as if Desmond just told him something he already knew. He opened the door. "Get inside," he said when Desmond was just standing there, fear and mistrust rooting him to the ground. "Get inside," he repeated with impatience now. "I am cold."
Finally, Desmond was able to move, and he followed the man into the house.
Desmond kicked off his wet shoes and winced when he realized that even his socks were soaked. "Great," he thought gloomily. "This is just great..."
The man went somewhere and came back a few minutes later with some clothes in his hands.
"Here," he handed clothes to Desmond who just looked at him in defiance. The man rolled his eyes. "You are going to drip water all over the floor. Just go into the damn bathroom and put these on. They should fit you just fine. Might be a little too big, but oh well."
Desmond took the clothes from him very carefully, as if he was afraid that the guy was going to attack him.
"Where is the bathroom?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
"First door on your left," the guy pointed towards the small hallway.
Desmond went there, perfectly aware of the fact that the man was following him. He was so tense that his shoulders ached.
"Here," the guy said and Desmond whirled around. The man was handing him a towel.
Desmond took several quick steps back.
"I am not taking a shower here!" he said and hated the shadow of fear in his own voice.
"Wipe your hair with this," the guy rolled his eyes again. "It's wet."
Desmond blinked and didn't move. The guy put the towel on the counter next to the sink, his face indifferent, as if he didn't notice Desmond's reaction.
"And wash your hands," he added. "They are filthy, and in case if you want to eat, you'd better clean them."
Desmond blinked again and the guy walked out of the bathroom, closing the door after him. Desmond pulled off his soaking-wet clothes and used the towel to wipe all the water off his body. Dry clothes felt heavenly. He furiously wiped his wet hair with the towel, trying to get every raindrop out. Finally, his hair was as dry as it could possibly get right now. Not completely, of course, but now it was rather damp than wet.
He looked at the towel thoughtfully, trying to figure out what to do with it. Finally, he hung it on the top of the shower curtain rod and spread it out, making sure that it wasn't crumpled. His hands were indeed filthy. Dirt and dry blood from the scrapes that he got after slamming into the pavement earlier, made them look caked with something disgusting. Desmond washed them thoroughly, and after he was done, he wiped them on the same towel.
He turned the faucets off and took a deep breath, trying to get rid of that tension. It worked but only partially. Desmond turned the lights off and walked out of the bathroom.
"You hungry?" The man was fiddling with the pot on the stove. "I got some spaghetti left over from a couple of days ago."
Spaghetti was fine. Anything would be fine. Anything but the pot-roast.
"Yeah," Desmond said in a small voice. "Thanks..."
...After they finished eating, the man said:
"Second door on your right."
"Huh?" Desmond looked at him with confusion.
"That's where you sleep," the man said and the tension was back in all its glory. "You can lock the door from the inside if you want. There is a bathroom in there as well, not as big though. So if you decide that you need a shower after all, go ahead. There should be a toothbrush in there somewhere too. Look in the drawers. My name is Jason, by the way," he added and got up, grabbing both plates off the table and putting them into the sink.
"I am..." Desmond stared at his own hands. "I am Desmond," he said finally.
"Good night, Desmond," Jason nodded and went away. "Turn the lights off when you leave the kitchen, will you?" he said before disappearing in the same hallway.
"Yeah," Desmond muttered.
...He did lock the door before going to sleep that night. Then he thought for a second and shoved one of the chairs against the door as well, making sure that the back of the said chair was propped firmly against the doorknob. After doing that, he collapsed on the bed (God, he couldn't even remember the last time he slept in bed!) and he was out before his head hit the pillow.